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PHOEBE  ELIZABETH  EMERY 


PRICE  TEN  CENTS 


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Woman’s  Foreign  Missionary  Society 
Methodist  Episcopal  Church 

Publication  Office,  Boston,  Mass. 


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VILLAGE  ECHOES 

By  Phoebe  Elizabeth  Emery 


“ONE  MORE  DAY’S  WORK  FOR  JESUS” 

'^HE  day  is  over  and,  like  Abraham  of  old,  I 

sit  in  my  tent  door  enjoying  the  coolness 
of  the  evening.  My  two  big  white  oxen  tied  to  the 
wheel  of  the  cart  are  contentedly  munching  their 
straw.  The  Bible  woman,  squatted  on  the  ground 
in  front  of  her  tiny  tent,  is  busily  engaged  in 
making  chapatties  (unleavened  cakes)  over  a 
little  fire  of  dried  cow-dung.  The  acrid  smoke 
curls  up  peacefully  in  the  still  evening  air  and, 
as  she  turns  the  cakes  deftly  from  side  to  side, 
she  chants  aloud  in  a high-pitched  tone  of  voice, 
Gunagaharon  ke  bachane  ko  aya  Masiha  (To  save 
sinners,  Christ  came). 

The  ox-driver,  seated  apart  in  front  of  a still 
more  diminutive  tent,  is  also  engaged  in  making 
chapatties.  The  ground  around  him  has  been 
freshly  plastered  with  cow-dung  and  his  tent  is 
pitched  at  an  exclusive  distance  that  the  con- 
taminating shadow  of  the  Christian  may  not  fall 
upon  his  food;  for  he  is  a Hindoo  and  while  a 
tolerant,  good-natured  fellow  in  most  points,  he 
can  be  changed  in  a moment  into  a fierce,  iron- 
clad bigot  if  his  caste  is  touched. 

A faint  afterglow  lingers  in  the  western  sky, 
and  a few  baby  stars  have  slipped  out  in  their 
fleecy  nighties  of  white  clouds  and  peep  down 
inquisitively  at  me  through  the  overhanging 
branches  of  the  mango  trees.  A white  moon  rides 
high  in  the  sky  and  by  the  witchery  of  her  magic 
transforms  my  common  everyday  world  into  a 
mysterious  fairyland  of  light  and  shade.  It  is  a 
beautiful  night  in  which  to  be  alive  and,  having 
just  finished  a juicy  repast  of  savory  goat  stew 
which  would  bear  a favorable  comparison  with 
the  historic  one  concocted  by  Rebekah  of  old, 
I sit  in  my  tent  door  in  a musing  frame  and  gaze 
out  on  the  sights  and  scenes  about  me,  for  I,  be  it 
known,  am  an  evangelistic  missionary,  one  of  those 
nomadic  wanderers  whose  castle  consists  of  four 
sloping  walls  of  white  canvas  and  whose  grounds 
and  gardens  change  with  the  changing  moons. 


My  chariot  and  prancing  steeds  have  carried 
me  far  today  along  the  white,  winding  ox  trail 
and  I feel  that  I have  earned  these  few  minutes 
of  leisure.  Six  villages  is  not  a bad  record  when 
one  remembers  that  there  has  been  from  an  hour 
to  an  hour  and  a half  spent  in  services  at  each  stop. 

In  that  first  village,  the  baby  had  sore  eyes. 
Let  us  hope  the  mother  understood  and  will 
faithfully  carry  out  the  directions  in  regard  to 


My  Chariot  and  Prancing  White  Steeds 


the  use  of  the  boric  acid  which  I gave  her.  And 
the  heathen  mother  who  brought  the  leper  boy  to 
be  healed!  How  terrible  it  seemed!  A leper  at 
six  years  of  age!  How  I hope  she  will  take  him 
to  Aloradabad  to  the  leper  asylum  as  I advised. 
There  everything  that  is  possible  will  be  done  to 
alleviate  his  suffering,  and  what  a joy  it  was  to 
tell  her  of  One  who  did  cure  the  lepers  and  who 
loves  and  cares  for  her  poor  stricken  boy. 

In  one  village,  there  was  a battle  royal  with 
idolatry.  Poor  woman,  how  hard  it  was  for  her  to 
give  up  her  belief  in  the  thing  of  mud  and  stone! 
How  the  light  did  shine  in  her  face  when  at  last 
the  truth  of  a living  Saviour  did  intrude  itself 
into  her  consciousness!  She  will  need  much  prayer 
to  uphold  her  in  her  new-found  faith,  for  it  is  not 
easy  to  escape  a lifetime  of  heathen  beliefs  and 
practices. 

Those  were  fine  simple-minded  Christians  at 
Tatarpur  and  how  that  night-watchman  did 
shout  Yisu  Masih  ki  Jai  (Victory  to  Jesus).  He 


3 


is  a tither,  by  the  way,  which  may  account  for 
the  ring  of  victory  in  the  shout.  He  has  three 
children  in  our  mission  schools,  one  of  whom  will 
go  out  as  a teacher  this  year. 

And  always  and  always  as  a background  for 
all  our  meetings  there  were  the  crowds  of  Hindus 
and  Mohammedans  who  form  a curious  semi- 
circle of  onlookers  behind  our  Christians,  all 
gaping  with  wide-open  eyes  and  mouth  at  the 
curious  white  person  before  them.  Many  of  them 
had  been  profoundly  moved  at  the  story  of 
redeeming  love  and  had  eagerly  taken  the  tracts 
given  them.  Thus  resting  on  His  promise  that 
His  word  shall  not  return  unto  Him  void  we  are 
content. 

The  afterglow  has  faded  and  the  stars  shine 
forth  brilliantly,  undaunted  by  the  silvery  moon- 
light which  seeks  to  eclipse  their  beams.  A tiny 
path  winds  invitingly  before  my  door,  tiptoeing 
in  and  out  among  the  flickering  shadows.  No  one 
with  a spice  of  imagination  could  resist  such  a 
tantalizing  dare,  and  scarcely  without  volition 
on  my  part,  I arise  and  follow  its  beckonings. 
This  is  ^larch  in  the  homeland!  March  with  its 
slush,  its  wind  and  its  mud!  Well,  there  are 
compensations  after  all  in  being  a missionary. 
This  mild  March  night  with  the  witchery  of  'ts 
moonlight  is  merely  one  of  the  “added  things” 
which  the  kind  Father  delights  to  bestow  upon  his 
children.  Who  was  it  talked  of  being  “buried”  in 
India?  Anyway,  it’s  a mighty  pleasant  graveyard 
on  a spring  night  and  I lift  my  head  that  I may 
better  feel  the  play  of  the  soft  wind  on  my  face. 

But  by  the  sound  of  the  wind  rustling  the 
tall  reeds,  I am  brought  back  to  the  present  with  a 
start  to  find  that  my  fairy  path  has  led  me  into  a 
dense  jungle  of  tall  grass  which  waves  stiff  and 
upright  as  high  as  my  head  on  every  side.  With 
a curious  shiver  up  and  down  my  spine,  I recall 
the  stories  of  fierce  she-wolves  which  lurk  in  these 
grassy  jungles  ready  to  pounce  upon  the  first 
innocent  traveller  who  passes  their  way  after 
nightfall,  and  the  words  of  the  Indian  preacher, 
spoken  this  very  day,  do  not  add  to  my  comfort, 
“None  but  a very  brave  man  would  elect  to  pass 
through  these  jungles  alone  at  night.”  As  I 
happen  to  be  neither  a man  or  very  brave  I 
hurriedly  retrace  my  steps.  It  would,  no  doubt, 
be  a very  romantic  ending  to  a missionary  career 
to  be  eaten  by  the  wild  beasts  of  the  jungles,  but 


4 


romance  is  another  of  those  things  to  which  dis- 
tance lends  enchantment,  besides  I have  no 
intention  of  ending  my  career  just  yet.  There  are 
too  many  interesting  things  to  be  done  first. 

The  camp  fires  send  out  a welcome  gleam  as 
I retread  the  twisting  trail,  and  emboldened  by 
the  sight,  I again  slacken  my  pace.  It  was  in  such 
a night  as  this  that  Abraham  walked  forth  under 
an  Oriental  sky  and  looking  at  these  same  myriads 
of  flaming  stars  saw  in  a vision  the  great  multitude 
of  the  faithful  who  in  the  years  to  come  were  to 
inherit  the  silent  wastes  about  him,  rivaling  even 
the  sparkling  hosts  in  numbers,  and  with  a thrill 
of  the  heart  I recognize  that  the  promise  was  not 
only  to  him  but  “to  those  who  are  afar  off.  As 
many  as  the  Lord  our  God  shall  call.”  I too  was 
an  heir  to  the  promise  and  claimed  the  covenant. 


Typical  Village  Congregation 
In  foreground  is  mud  stove  on  which  they  cook  their  food 


It  might  not  come  in  my  time,  but  come  it  would 
when  the  faithful  in  India  should  be  as  the  stars 
for  multitude.  A multitude  that  no  man  would 
be  able  to  number.  In  that  day  it  would  be  fine 
to  know  that  I had  had  a part  in  bringing  it 
about. 

“As  the  stars  for  multitude,”  I quoted  softly 
looking  up  at  the  silent  glory  flaming  above  me 
and  in  the  hush  that  followed  another  promise 
dropped  warm  and  glowing  into  my  uplifted  heart, 
“They  that  are  wise  shall  shine  as  the  bright- 
ness of  the  firmament  and  they  that  turn  many 
to  righteousness  as  the  stars  forever  and  ever.” 


5 


HOW  THE  LITTLE  BROWN  WOMAN  AND 
THE  LITTLE  SPECKLED  HEN  HELPED 
OUT  IN  THE  MISSIONARY 
COLLECTION 

'^HE  pastor  was  taking  up  a collection,  that 
is,  he  was  supposed  to  be  taking  it.  The 
clean  white  jarin  (cloth)  had  been  spread  out  on 
the  bamboo  bed  and  the  invitation  given  to  the 
people  to  bring  forth  their  offerings  “in  the  name 
of  the  Lord,”  but  so  far  there  had  been  no  visible 
result  from  the  appeal.  The  male  part  of  the 
congregation  (not  counting  the  fringe  of  Hindu 
and  Mohammedan  on-lookers)  which  consisted  of 
two  men  and  a boy  were  inclined  to  be  apologetic. 


Taking  the  Collection 
The  one  with  basket  has  just  poured  her  offering 
of  grain  on  the  jarin 


That  is,  the  men  were.  They  murmured  some 
faint  words  about  the  hard  times  and  the  failure 
of  the  crops.  “Perhaps  the  next  time  the  pastor 
came  around  — ” the  boy  squatted  on  his  heels, 
his  bright  black  eyes  taking  in  everything.  He 
was  thinking  — but  who  will  attempt  to  say 
what  a boy  might  not  be  thinking.^ 

On  the  female  side  of  the  house,  more  inter- 
esting things  were  happening,  as  they  sometimes 


6 


do.  The  younger  woman  had  launched  forth  into 
a perfect  torrent  of  explanation,  exhonoration, 
extenuation  and  all  the  other  ex’s  in  the  cata- 
logue, in  which  she  blamed  the  pastor,  the  mis- 
sionary, the  church,  the  government,  and  all  the 
other  powers  that  be,  generally  for  the  hardness 
of  the  times  and  the  stress  of  circumstances,  while 
all  the  time  heavy  silver  anklets  and  bangles 
gleamed  from  ankles  and  wrists. 

A little  girl  of  about  ten  spent  all  her  time 
in  rescuing  the  baby  from  one  predicament  only 
to  have  him  fall  into  another.  Just  at  present 
that  young  hopeful  was  investigating  the  “Miss- 
Sahibs”  shoe  lace.  He  had  a firm  belief,  like  a 
certain  historic  kinswoman  of  his,  that  if  he  could 
only  just  taste  it  once  all  the  mystery  surrounding 
it  would  be  cleared.  But  the  way  to  his  mouth 
seemed  a long  and  dubious  one  fraught  with  many 
difficulties.  Many  a time  he  had  almost  succeeded 
only  to  have  the  shiny  steel  point  slip  from  his 
grasp  and  his  rising  expectations  dashed  to  the 
ground. 

The  little  speckled  hen  had  done  her  day’s 
work  and  was  now  busily  engaged  in  scratching 
in  a dust  pile  to  see  if  she  could  not  unearth  a 
stray  bug  for  dinner.  These  folks  seemed  very 
tiresome  with  their  endless  talk  and  clatter. 
There  was  quite  sure  to  be  a fat  worm  over  there 
among  those  leaves  if  those  Mohammedan  women 
would  just  move  on  and  let  her  have  a chance  to 
find  it. 

The  little  brown  woman  sat  very  still  with 
her  chaddar  pulled  low  over  her  face  while 
she  peered  out  from  the  folds  with  a troubled, 
anxious  look.  She  had  followed  the  service,  oh! 
so  eagerly.  It  was  all  so  wonderful,  this  Christ 
about  whom  the  missionary  had  told  them.  Now 
that  she  had  seen  it  all  in  the  pictures,  she  had 
understood  it  for  the  first  time.  She  would  never 
forget  that  last  picture,  the  one  of  Jesus  going  to- 
heaven  in  the  clouds.  How  her  heart  had  thrilled 
at  the  missionary’s  words:  “He  is  alive.  See, 

we  do  not  worship  a dead  prophet,  but  a living 
God!  Always  he  has  promised  to  be  with  us.  He 
is  with  us  today,  sitting  in  our  hearts,  if  we  are 
truly  Christians.  ” 

A strange,  glad  joy  fluttered  in  the  little 
woman’s  heart.  He  was  her  God.  She,  too,  was  a 
Christian.  But,  oh,  if  she  only  had  something  to 
give  him!  The  empty  square  of  white  seemed  to 


7 


reproach  her.  He  had  given  so  much  and  she  had 
nothing  to  give  in  return.  The  last  handful  of 
wheat  had  been  ground,  made  into  cakes  and 
eaten  not  an  hour  before.  In  a little  while  she 
would  go  to  the  home  of  some  of  her  high-caste 
neighbors  and  perform  the  scavenger  tasks  of  the 
household.  In  return  for  this,  they  would  give  her 
the  scraps  from  their  well-filled  larder  and  this 
would  form  the  evening  repast  for  herself  and 
family. 

The  cheap  glass  bangles  on  her  arms  were 
worth  only  a few  pice  at  the  most.  Nothing  in 
the  world  did  she  own  except  her  scanty  household 
utensils  and  a little  speckled  hen.  The  vessels 
she  must  keep  in  order  to  feed  her  family.  As  for 
the  little  speckled  hen  — . 

With  a sudden  triumphant  sparkle  in  her 
eye,  she  got  hurriedly  to  her  feet,  drew  the 
chaddar  yet  lower  over  her  face,  and  disap- 
peared into  the  house.  In  a moment  more,  she 
was  back  in  the  doorway,  but  having  come  that 
far  her  courage  failed  her.  She  could  never  go  out 
before  all  those  people  to  put  her  offering  on  the 
jarin. 

Munshi  ji,  munshi  ji  (respected  teacher, 
respected  teacher),  she  called  in  a timid  voice, 
which  was  quite  swallowed  up  in  the  strident  tones 
of  her  sister-in-law.  But  the  “Miss  Sahiba”  had 
been  an  interested  spectator  of  all  her  move- 
ments, and  quickly  called  the  pastor’s  attention 
to  the  situation. 

“Take  the  ‘jarin’  to  her,”  she  suggested, 
which  the  pastor  was  not  slow  to  do. 

The  chaddar  was  pulled  down  completely 
over  the  face  now.  One  wondered  how  she  could 
see  at  all,  and  yet,  see  she  did  well  enough,  for  as 
the  pastor  presented  the  clean  square  of  cloth 
spread  out  and  empty  on  his  palms  she  dropped 
into  the  very  middle  of  it  — now  what  do  you 
suppose?  A nice  fresh  milk-white  egg. 

The  little  speckled  hen  paused  in  her  scratch- 
ings,  cocked  her  head  on  one  side,  and  winked 
with  one  eye  at  the  pastor,  saying  as  plainly  as 
ever  she  could  in  her  hen  language,  “That’s  what 
I expected  her  to  do  with  it  all  along.” 

The  Miss  Sahiba  laid  her  hand  tenderly  on 
the  shrouded  head  as  she  murmured  something 
about  the  “widow’s  mite,”  and  then  because  she 
was  only  a woman,  even  if  she  was  a missionary, 
and  women  do  silly  things  sometimes;  she  put  up 


8 


her  handkerchief  and  hurriedly  dried  her  eyes  as 
she  turned  away. 

The  little  speckled  hen,  who  had  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  unearthing  the  fat  bug,  shook  her  head 
in  perplexity  as  she  gobbled  it  down.  She  had 
given  many  eggs  to  many  people  in  her  lifetime 
but  this  was  the  first  time  any  one  had  ever  cried 
at  receiving  one. 

But  the  little  brown  woman  saw  neither 
the  tears  of  the  one  nor  the  head  shakings  of  the 
other.  Palm  to  her  forehead,  she  was  bent  very 
low  in  the  act  of  giving  her  parting  salaams 
while  over  and  over  her  glad  heart  was  singing: 

“Raja  Yisu  aya. 

Mere  dil  men  aya. 

Mujh  ko  mukti  dene  keleye 
Raja  Yisu  aya.” 

(King  Jesus  has  come. 

Into  my  heart  he  has  come. 

To  give  me  salvation. 

King  Jesus  has  come.) 


A Village  Altar  of  Mud 
On  this  chickens,  goats  and  pigs  are  offered  to  the  gods 


9 


“ EACH  AND  ALL  ” 


J-JE  was  a lithe  and  handsome  youngster,  a 

Brahmin  of  Brahmins,  as  was  evinced  in 
every  line  of  his  proud,  high-bred  features.  The 
w'hite  cloth  that  draped  his  limbs  was  of  finest 
linen  and  this  was  set  off  to  advantage  by  a dark 
blue  velvet  coat  reaching  to  his  knees.  His 
closely  cropped  head  with  its  long,  silky  sacred 
lock  floating  jauntily  from  the  middle  of  the 
crown,  was  surmounted  by  a red  cap  richly 
ornamented  in  gold  braid.  The  embroidered  bag  of 
books  in  his  hand  proclaimed  him  as  just  released 
from  school  while  the  bright  black  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  take  in  everything  at  once  in  their 
glance,  showed  him  ready  for  mischief  or  adven- 
ture. 

The  next  actor  in  the  little  drama  was  a 
much  more  humble  personage.  He  sat  squatted 
on  the  ground,  his  back  against  the  wheel  of  the 
oxcart,  while  he  gave  long,  lazy  pulls  at  a vil- 
lainous smelling  haqqa  (water  pipe).  He  had 
“honked”  the  oxen  far  over  roads  not  easy  to 
describe  in  polite  language  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
justly  earned  his  long  deferred  smoke.  His  long 
muscular  arms  and  sinewy  frame  proclaimed  him 
a true  son  of  the  soil.  His  body  was  partly  cov- 
ered by  a little  quilted  jacket  reaching  just  below 
his  ribs  while  a strip  of  coarse  cotton  cloth 
wrapped  around  his  loins  and  tucked  up  between 
his  legs  formed  a rude  kind  of  very  loose  panta- 
loons. 

Gurgle,  gurgle,  gurgle,  went  the  water  in  the 
pipe,  while  the  man  drew  in  long,  deep  draughts 
of  contentment,  and  laid  rosy  plans  for  the  mar- 
riage of  his  youngest  son,  now  a promising  young 
hopeful  of  four  ripe  years. 

The  boy  rounded  the  corner  with  a youthful 
swagger,  and  then  brought  up  straight  like  a 
mettlesome  charger  at  the  sight  of  the  smoker  and 
his  queer-looking  equipage. 

It  was  an  oxcart  all  right.  If  all  other  evi- 
dence was  lacking,  there  were  the  two  big  white 
creatures  as  final  proof  of  the  matter.  But  such  a 
queer  looking  oxcart  had  never  landed  in  the 
village  before,  and  he  surveyed  it  with  the  light 
of  a discoverer  of  new  worlds  shining  in  his  eyes. 
The  thick-padded  schooner  top,  the  cushioned 
seats,  the  yoke  that  swung  on  an  iron  pivot 
instead  of  being  tied  on  with  a rope,  and,  last  of 


10 


all,  the  springs  and  the  wheels  with  their  iron 
rims. 

He  examined  each  and  every  part  both 
separately  and  as  a whole.  To  better  aid  in  his 
scientific  research,  he  climbed  up  on  the  step 
while  the  driver  watched  closely  through  half- 
shut eyes  of  amused  tolerance.  Once  on  the  step, 
he  discovered  that  two  boxes  were  placed  on 
each  side  of  the  cart,  and  like  Pandora  of  old  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  lift  the  lid. 
With  a covert  glance  at  the  man,  he  gave  one 
peep,  then  a prolonged  stare  at  the  greatness  of 
his  discovery. 


The  “Chauffeur”  Who  “Honked”  the  Oxen 
OVER  Many  Weary  Miles 


It  was  filled  with  books.  Big  books,  little 
books,  and  middle-sized  books!  Never  before 
had  he  beheld  so  many  at  one  time.  Without 
heeding  the  warning  grunt  of  the  man,  he  dragged 
out  a handful  of  them  to  view.  The  first  one  was 
in  English  and  he  tossed  it  aside.  The  second  was 
more  to  his  liking,  as  it  was  in  Urdu  and  he  com- 
menced slowly  to  read  out  the  words. 

“Ham  se  barhni  na  jai, 

Masih  tumhari  mahima,” 

(Oh,  Jesus,  of  thy  matchless  glory, 

I can  never  tell  the  story.) 


“It’s  a poem,”  he  cried  excitedly. 

The  man  beside  him  nodded  wisely,  although 
not  able  to  read  a word  of  it  himself. 

“It’s  a song,”  he  answered,  “and  has  a real 
pretty  tune.  ” 

“But  what  are  all  these  books  for?”  asked 
the  boy. 

“They  belong  to  the  Engrez  log  (English 
people),”  replied  the  man.  “They  are  very  wise. 
They  know  all  the  books  in  the  world  and  so  the 
Miss  Sahiba  carries  these  with  her  and  sells  them 
to  whoever  wants  one.” 

“How  much  does  she  get  for  them?  Will  she 
sell  me  one  ? ” The  boy  tumbled  out  both  questions 
in  one  breath  while  he  fumbled  to  untie  a little 
hoard  of  small  coins  bound  up  in  one  corner  of  his 
loin  cloth.  The  man  laughed  good-naturedly. 

“They  are  only  a pice  and  I will  sell  you  one 
myself.  She  will  be  glad  to  have  me  do  it.” 

The  pice  was  duly  handed  over  and  the  great 
transaction  was  complete. 

The  boy  now  began  to  try  to  sing  the  songs 
but  after  a few  tunings  he  gave  up  in  despair.  His 
tunes  didn’t  seem  to  fit.  “You  teach  me,”  he 
cried  imperiously  in  the  tone  of  one  accustomed  to 
being  obeyed.  But  the  man  only  grinned  sheep- 
ishly and  shook  his  head. 

“My  work  is  driving  oxen,  not  singing  songs,” 
he  declared,  “but  if  you  will  go  on  down  the  next 
street  you  will  find  the  Miss  Sahiba  under  the 
pepul  tree,  and  she  will  teach  you  all  of  them.” 

The  boy  needed  no  second  bidding  but 
started  off  on  a run  down  the  narrow,  dirty  street 
in  quest  of  this  new  adventure.  And  now  the 
curtain  rises  on  the  third  actor  in  the  scene. 

He  sat  on  a low  mud  wall,  a little  brown 
figure  bowed  with  much  bending  over  the  loom. 
His  little  white  cloth  cap  was  in  his  hand  showing 
a head  closely  cropped  without  the  usual  scalp- 
lock  in  the  center.  He  was  dressed  in  a battered 
pair  of  trousers  much  in  need  of  repair  and  wore 
a little  short  jacket  fastened  only  with  one  button 
at  the  top.  His  head  was  bowed  low  and  he  was 
slowly  stumbling  over  the,  to  him,  difficult  words 
of  the  Lord’s  prayer,  as  they  fell  slowly  and 
distinctly  from  the  lips  of  the  missionary.  His 
wife  and  two  children  sat  on  the  ground  in  front 
of  him,  while  several  “Chamar”  women  had 
halted  in  the  background  to  view  the  strange 
proceedings. 


12 


“Forever  and  ever,  Amen,”  repeated  the 
missionary. 

“Forever  and  ever.  Amen,”  faltered  the 
man,  and  then  all  raised  their  heads  and  he  saw 
the  boy  standing  beside  him  with  the  book  in  his 
hand. 

The  missionary  might  be  compared  to  the 
stage  manager  in  the  play.  She  merely  arranged 
the  scenes  for  the  others  to  do  the  acting.  She 
also  saw  the  boy  and  recognized  the  book  in  his 
hand. 

“Can  you  read  what  is  written.^”  she 
asked. 

The  boy,  proud  to  show  his  ability,  opened 
the  book  and  began  in  the  usual  school-boy  sing- 
song: 

“Aya  hai  yisu  aya  hai,  (King  Jesus  has  come. 
King  Jesus  has  come).” 

His  eloquence  was  interrupted  by  the  voice 
of  the  weaver.  In  a high,  nasal,  not  unmusical 
voice,  he  took  up  the  refrain,  “Aya  hai  Yisu  aya 
hai.” 

“What  comes  next.^”  he  asked  delightedly, 
and  the  boy  lined  off  another  stanza  which  was 
quickly  taken  up  by  the  self-appointed  Orpheus. 

“Do  you  know  all  the  tunes asked  the 
boy,  and  the  weaver  nodded  happily. 

“I  never  heard  a song  yet  that  I couldn’t  fit 
a tune  to.  The  only  difficulty,  ” he  added  soberly, 
“is  that  I can’t  remember  how  the  words  come. 
Can  you  read  all  the  songs 

“All  of  them,  ” declared  the  boy,  emphatically. 

“Well,  then,”  said  the  weaver,  enthusiasti- 
cally, “I’ll  tell  you  what  we’ll  do.  You  bring 
your  book  and  sit  out  here  while  I stretch  my 
threads  ready  for  the  loom.  You  can  tell  me  the 
words  and  I will  tell  you  the  tunes.” 

They  were  too  much  engrossed  over  their 
own  great  plans  to  pay  much  attention  to  the 
parting  “salaams”  of  the  missionary  but  as  she 
turned  away  a few  lines  from  “The  Sage  of 
Concord”  came  into  her  mind  and  as  she  glanced 
back  at  the  queerly  assorted  pair  she  murmured 
to  herself, 

“All  are  needed  by  each  one. 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone.” 


13 


TELLING  THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY 


TT  was  a typical  village  and  a typical  sweeper’s 
home.  A mud  hut,  a mud  courtyard  open  on 
one  side,  a charpai^  or  two,  a man  seated  lazily 
in  the  sunshine  enjoying  his  noonday  smoke,  his 
wife  busily  engaged  in  lepoing^  the  walls  of  the 
house,  and  the  old  mother  picking  zoological 
specimens  from  the  seams  of  a ragged  kurta^  — 
surely  nothing  more  prosaic  and  uninspiring  could 
be  well  imagined.  Into  this  scene  of  domestic 
felicity,  without  preface  or  apology,  walks  the 
missionary  and  her  humble  helper,  the  Bible 
woman.  As  that  missionary  happened  to  be 
myself,  I will  ask  the  privilege  of  telling  the  story 
first  hand,  as  it  actually  happened. 

Behold  us,  then,  seated  on  the  charpais,  our 
little  congregation  of  Christians  on  the  ground 
facing  us.  The  usual  bhajan^  was  sung,  after 
which  I began  by  asking  some  questions  from  the 
Zaruri  T’alim^.  Numbers  one  and  two  they 
answered  to  my  entire  satisfaction.  When  they 
came  to  number  three,  there  was  an  embarrassing 
silence.  “Who  is  Jesus  Christ.?”  I asked;  at 
which  each  looked  beseechingly  at  the  other  for 


Telling  the  Old,  Old  Story 


the  answer.  Finally,  the  old  woman  became  the 
spokesman.  “I  don’t  know  much  about  him,” 
she  answered,  “I  only  know  that  he  is  the  God 
I serve  and  I serve  no  one  beside  him.”  How  is 
that  for  a confession  of  faith?  “You  don’t  know 

■cot  ^plastering  with  cow  dung  ’shirt 

‘hymn  ‘a  short  catechism 

14 


about  him,”  said  the  Bible  woman,  “and,  for 
that  reason,  we  have  come  to  tell  you.  Just  listen 
and  you  may  learn  the  whole  story.  ” 

A crowd  of  women  of  one  of  the  higher  castes, 
attracted  by  the  singing,  had  drawn  near  and  were 
standing  outside  the  entrance  on  the  courtyard. 
“ Come  and  listen,  also,  ” invited  the  Bible  woman, 
but  they  drew  their  skirts  scornfully  around 
them  and  muttered  something  about  “Mangf.  ”® 
Without  preliminary,  she  commenced  telling 
the  old,  old  story  while  her  little  audience  drank 


Her  Little  Audience  Drank  in  Every  Word 


in  every  word.  It  was  all  so  new  and  wonderful 
to  them!  With  upraised  hands  and  many  ejacu- 
lations, they  heard  the  story  of  the  angels’  visit 
and  of  the  lowly  birth  in  the  manger.  Often  the 
old  mother  would  interrupt  by  exclaiming  to  her 
grandchild,  “ Listen ! Hear  every  word!” 

On  went  the  Bible  woman  with  the  story  of 
Jesus’  life  of  service,  of  healing  the  sick,  blessing 
the  little  ones,  raising  the  dead.  By  this  time, 
the  non-Christians  were  as  interested  as  the 
Christians  and  a deep  silence  ensued,  broken 
only  from  time  to  time  by  ejaculations  of  amaze- 
ment and  astonishment.  An  old  woman  among 
the  “gentiles”  so  far  forgot  her  dignity  and  the 
sense  of  her  surroundings  as  to  actually  sit  down 
on  the  ground  beside  her  sweeper  neighbor.  Her 
example  was  then  followed  by  several  children 
and  finally  by  some  of  the  other  women  until, 
before  the  end,  sweeper  and  high-caste  alike  were 
seated  side  by  side,  listening  with  hungry  hearts 

''untouchable  t r 


to  the  story  of  One  who  went  about  doing  good. 

Deep  were  the  exclamations  of  pity  and  woe, 
as  the  sufferings  on  Calvary  were  depicted.  Tears 
coursed  freely  down  the  cheeks  alike  of  Hindu 
and  Christian.  On  went  the  Bible  woman  with 
her  simple  narrative,  until  she  came  to  the  grand 
climax  when  a triumphant  Saviour  broke  the 
fetters  of  death  and  came  forth  alive  and  glorious 
from  the  tomb.  The  eyes  and  mouths  of  the 
listeners  gaped  wide  in  amazement  and  each 
turned  to  her  neighbor  to  hear  again  the  con- 
firmation of  the  joyful  news.  “He  came  forth 
alive!”  “From  the  tomb!”  “Did  you  hear  her 
tell  that.^”  For  a moment,  the  hubbub  was  so 
great  that  she  was  obliged  to  pause  until  order 
could  be  restored. 

Even  then,  the  end  of  the  wonderful  news 
had  not  been  reached,  for,  in  calmer  tones,  she 
sketched  the  story  of  the  forty  days  and  the  tri- 
umphal Ascension,  with  the  glorious  promise, 
“Lo,  I am  with  you  always!” 

While  they  were  exclaiming  over  this,  I put 
in  my  word.  “What  did  Jesus  promise?”  I 
asked.  “Did  he  not  say  that  he  would  be  with  us 
always?  Well,  I want  to  add  my  witness  that 
what  he  said  is  true.  For  he  is  with  me  all  the 
time.  He  is  in  my  heart,  right  now.”  I intended 
to  add  more  but  got  no  further,  for  the  old  sweeper 
woman  was  on  her  feet.  With  one  hand  she 
struck  her  breast  in  dramatic  Oriental  style, 
while  she  cried  out  in  an  estacy  of  joy,  as  she 
turned  to  her  Hindu  neighbors:  “He  is  in  my 
heart,  too!  He  is  in  my  heart,  too!” 

I felt  that  there  was  but  one  thing  to  say 
after  such  a true  testimony.  “Yisu  Masih  ki  jail 
Yisu.  Masih  ki  jail”  (Glory  to  Jesus)  we  all 
shouted,  again  and  again,  until  the  mud  walls 
trembled  with  the  joy  of  it. 

Only  a little  mud-walled  village  and  four 
illiterate  Christians,  a little  group  of  heathen 
village  women,  a Bible  woman  who  could  barely 
read  and  write  and  a simple  missionary  who 
couldn’t  preach,  if  she  tried,  yet  each  would  be 
willing  to  aver  that  it  was  the  most  wonderful 
meeting  ever  held. 

As  we  made  our  way  to  the  waiting  ox-cart, 
amid  cries  and  beseechings  to  come  again  and 
soon,  the  words  of  the  Alaster  seemed  to  fall  on 
my  ears  with  almost  audible  distinctness: 

“And  I,  if  I be  lifted  up  from  the  earth,  will 
draw  all  men  unto  Ale.” 

i6 


